Page 38 of Mountain Man Bad Boy

“Do you?” I asked because I wanted the whole story.

“No,” she said. “Well, yes, I do,” she amended her statement, sitting up again. “I have to give the patients their medication. Some of what’s prescribed does have a black-market value.”

“What did you tell him?” I pressed.

“I said no, of course.” She gave me a worried look. “He’s always pulling this crap. I’ve talked to him two times since Mom died, and both times he asked me for money. I think he’s in really big trouble.”

I sighed. It certainly sounded like it. You didn’t get desperate and call your sister at a drug treatment center asking for drugs if everything was fine. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel and had come up with the one person he thought he could bully into helping him. But Gina’s access to medication, one cup at a time, checked out from the pharmacy and delivered to her patients, wouldn’t satisfy a street dealer, much less a kingpin.

“I didn’t give him my number,” she admitted. “I don’t know how he found me.”

“Alright, well,” I said, not knowing where to begin. “At least he doesn’t know you’re here.”

“He’s my brother, Porter,” she sighed. “Don’t I owe him something?”

“You don’t owe him anything,” I insisted. “You definitely don’t owe him any money or drugs. Just be there when he’s ready to come clean. It doesn’t sound like he’s there yet.”

She wrapped a firm hand around my middle and snuggled in. “You’re the only one who could understand.”

I didn’t think that was exactly true. If there was one thing all the group therapy sessions had taught me, it was that there wasn’t anything unique about me as a user. All of us were selfish and traumatized; the specifics didn’t matter. Gina was acting out of a childhood need to feel useful, to help those who were suffering from the same ailment that claimed her mother’s life. I could see it clearly, even if she didn’t. Her attachment to her brother was classic, and I knew he would use it to his advantage if he could.

I almost felt like I had to protect Gina from herself. If she was wound so tightly around her dysfunctional family, then maybe I could help her disengage. We could start by letting her brother face his own demons.

“I feel the same way myself,” I told her, inching down so that my head rested on the pillow. “I know we’re not supposed to be together, but it seems like two people with so much in common should help each other out.”

She smiled; I could feel the muscles in her jaw working. “Is that what we’re doing? Helping each other out?”

“That and having fantastic sex,” I admitted.

I held her until she fell asleep, until she gave up her worry and surrendered to her fatigue. Her body felt so sweet, curled up next to mine, on this old mattress in my cheap apartment. I didn’t have a lot to offer her, but I could understand where she was coming from. My own childhood had been less than ideal.

In middle school and high school, I had spent as much time with Mike as I could. The stability of his household was a welcome contrast to the chaos of mine. Luckily, I had no siblings to drag me down, and my parents had passed away a long time ago. I was all alone in the world, with only my friends and the woman who now shared my bed.

Even without close family, I could understand the pull of blood relations. No one knew an addict like an addict. I understood that Gina’s brother wasn’t evil, just mired in the torment of his troubled existence. He was a lost cause until he decided to help himself. Gina, on the other hand, was a different story. With love and support, maybe I could help steer her away from the negative influence of her childhood, into brighter days.

I could start with my own sobriety. I didn’t want to be another drain on her resources. We could be partners, equal in responsibility, but only if I was a functional adult. I could be the safe harbor that she came home to, her shelter in the storm. I didn’t imagine myself to be a better person than her brother, just sober.

I found myself drifting toward sleep, having completely forgotten about the heroin in the trash.

22

GINA

At first, I didn’t know where I was when I woke. It wasn’t my own bed, and it wasn’t the hotel room. There was a body sleeping beside me—a warm male body. It all came back to me in a rush—the drive from Nashville, finding Porter in the diner, the sex at the hotel. I was in his bed, in his crappy room, four feet from the door. And I was happy.

I stretched out, not sure what time it was. George had called me, and I had driven to Porter’s home, desperate to talk to a friend. He had given me a listening ear and the longest hug ever invented. I must have fallen asleep.

I had to pee, and I wanted to take a look at myself in the mirror. I realized I had marched into his bedroom with tears streaming down my face, and I was aghast. It was too early in our relationship to show up looking disheveled. I didn’t know exactly what we were to each other, except that we were definitely lovers, definitely friends, and closer than I had ever been to anyone else in my life.

I inched off the mattress, trying to be quiet. Crossing the room in a few spare steps, I slipped out the door onto the landing. There was no hallway, just a carpeted area with a kitchenette and five closed doors. Which one was the bathroom? I couldn’t tell. I examined each of them, picking the one that looked the most used. It was right next to the refrigerator, which made sense. The toilet probably shared piping with the kitchen sink.

I held my breath and knocked. When no one answered, I twisted the knob. The door opened and let me in to a medium-sized bathroom with blue tile. There was a shower stall in one corner and a potty in the other. I locked the door, used the facilities, and washed my hands. In the mirror above the sink, I saw a gruesome face. My eyes were puffy and red from the tears. My hair, so lovingly combed and styled earlier in the day, lay flat, except for some rebellious strands that poked haphazardly from the nest.

Without my makeup or any products of any kind, I splashed water on my face. I found some apricot scrub that one of Porter’s housemates had left on a shelf beside the sink. I knew it was wrong, but I stole a pea-sized amount. Afterward, I felt better, and the woman in the mirror looked slightly less objectionable.

I straightened my hair and snuck back across the landing to Porter’s room. I thought he was asleep, so I opened the door gently. Closing it behind myself, I could barely see. It was dark outside. He didn’t have any curtains on the windows, and the blinds were still up. Outside was a blue-black sea devoid of stars or trees.

As my eyes adjusted, I maneuvered toward the bed. Luckily there wasn’t anything in my way, so I didn’t have to worry about tripping. I reached the mattress, hands out to provide tactile information. I came face-to-face with Porter, who was awake and sitting up in bed. I stifled a gasp, feeling laughter bubble up in my gut.

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